


Happy Birthday, Idiot

by Constellation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I don't think I've quite got the hang of this tagging system yet, JohnlockChallenges Exchange, One Shot, Platonic Romance, Post Reichenbach, Tumblr: johnlockchallenges, also John swears a bit (warning in case you don't like it or something), awesomely platonic johnlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:42:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Constellation/pseuds/Constellation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's /his/ birthday, and John Watson always visits their old flat on his birthday. Except this time there's something different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Idiot

_  
Three years._   _Three damn years._ John stared quizzically at the black gravestone, as if he was hoping it would hear his thoughts and talk back.  _It's been so long. And you're still here._

But of course he was there. Nowhere else to be. He was dead, buried underground, and he would stay there. Never coming back.

_I miss you._

At least that part was true. Every day.

_I'm scared. I'm starting to forget your face._

And that was true as well. His face had started to fade from John's mind. There were still his large bright eyes, his bright smile and dark hair, but John couldn't piece it together anymore. The few features didn't form a face. There were only the pieces.

_I can barely remember your voice._

John couldn't remember his voice, but every other detail of it. Every little sound and accent. How it ringed when he yelled "Murder!" or the low pitch when he was disappointed. How it always made John feel like the adventure would never end.

But the adventure had reached its end. It was over.

_Happy birthday, Sherlock._

* * *

"I'm going for a walk, love," John called out, grabbing his coat. "Also, where's the scarf?"

Mary peeked out of the kitchen and nodded slightly, attempting to rid of the apron. "Living room. Right where you left it."

"Thanks. I dun' know what I would do without you." He kissed her on the check and went to pick up the scarf.

"You're going  _there_ , aren't you?"

John stopped mid-step and sighed. Mary's voice had trailed of by the end of the sentence, like she knew what the answer would be.

"It's his birthday. I do it on his birthdays," he said, picking up the blue scarf that once had belonged to his best friend. It was the only thing of his he was allowed to keep. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes and imagined hard, he felt like some of his friend was still left in that scarf, however stupid it might have sounded.

Mary walked up behind him and buried her head into his back. "I know," she whispered. "But you're always so sad afterwards."

"I have to do it."

"Of course. Send him my love."

* * *

The corridor was cold enough to send shivers down John's spine. He made a strange quiet noise, then shook his head and started limping up the stairs. He hated his leg, hated how it got sick again after the adventures had ended.

The living room looked exactly the same as the year ago. And why shouldn't it have? They had left it like this. It hadn't been rented out again. Everything was the same. Even the skull was sitting at the same spot.

John walked slowly around the room, taking everything in. It was so familiar, yet so strange. The room had burned itself into his brain and wouldn't leave. He could be blind and he'd still know where every little thing was. It was as good as graved onto his eyes.  _Unlike your face._

Thin layer of dust covered everything – Mrs Hudson cleaned the flat occasionally. The air smelled of  _old_. Dust and fresh coffee and old experiments and  _memories_.

It was then that John realised something was wrong. There shouldn't have been the smell of coffee.

Quietly, more confused than ever, he strolled over to the kitchen, and stopped at the door. There were things all over the table. Bags. Books. Glass jars with odd-coloured liquids. And several big mugs of coffee, all partially filled. Without even thinking, he walked straight to the freezer and pulled it open.

A pair of hands. On the upper shelf, there was a pair of frozen hands. The cane slipped out of John's hand and hit the ground with a loud thump, as he stared at the dead body parts.

"Close do door, will you? I don't want them to melt."

John obeyed, but wouldn't move otherwise. Steps approached behind him.

"Thank you."

_I know this voice._  John was puzzled. This voice, it was so familiar, but it sure gave him creeps. He should've turned around, ask what they were doing here, why there were things all over the table, why there were hands in the freezer, but his brain refused to move, scared of what he might see.

"It's not worse than having a head, you know. You were much less surprised at the head."

_Who are you? Why are you here? Why do I know your voice?_

"Look, John-"

It clicked. There was only one person who said his name like this. "No."

"What?"

John turned finally around, facing the stranger. "You."

"Me?"

The stranger smiled at him. John knew that smile. He knew those eyes and that dark hair. They pieced together perfectly, and he refused to believe this. It wasn't possible.  _You're not real. You're gone. You left me._

His consciousness faded as he fell to the ground, feeling someone catching him as the last thing.

* * *

"John! John! Wake up, John!"

A strong smell woke him from the darkness. With a groan, John tried to stand up, only to tremble and fall back to the chair someone had placed him.

"John? Are you alright?"

He glanced at the tall figure standing over him. It wasn't possible. It had to be a dream, or a hallucination. There was no other way Sherlock Holmes could stand there completely alive and grinning like an idiot.

_You. You're not real._  "You're not real."

"Of course I am." Sherlock sat down on the floor, carelessly throwing away a small bottle he had held in his hand. "Last time I checked, I had a pulse, brain activity and ability to think, so I'm very much real."

"You," John pointed at him, sitting up and frowning. "You are dead."

"Clearly not."

"You are dead. You jumped. I saw you jump. I buried you three years ago.  _I buried you!_ "

"I thought you knew me well enough to know that-"

"That what? That you're coming back as a ghost to haunt me?"

"That I wouldn't leave you like this."

"Three years, Sherlock!  _Three bloody years!_ " John shook his head. "No. You're not real. You're a ghost. A hallucination. Or an imposter."

"I'm not a ghost or a hallucination. See?"'

John froze as Sherlock stretched out his arm and took the doctor's hand.

"If I was either, I wouldn't be able to do that. Besides, ghosts don't exist."

John pulled his hand away, trembling. "No. This can't be. You can't be alive."

"But I am very much alive, John! Why can't you see it?"

They sat in silence for a moment, before John got up and punched Sherlock straight in the face.

Shocked Sherlock backed instantly off. "What? Why did you do that? First you faint and then you punch me?"

"THREE YEARS!" John roared. "THREE fucking YEARS, Sherlock! I thought you were dead!"

"I said-"

"I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!" John grabbed Sherlock by shoulders and shook him. "What did you think I was supposed to feel?"

"I didn't think it would affect you this much," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes! That's the problem! You didn't  _think_! You didn't think that I would be traumatized by my best friend's death!"

Sherlock stood very still and quiet, letting John hit him several times. He seemed suddenly aware of what he had done, what it had done to John, the only person who called him a friend. A  _best_  friend.

Then, without a warning, John collapsed onto Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the very confused detective. "John? … um… I'm getting mixed signals from you, John. Please be more constant."

"I missed you," John mumbled into Sherlock's shirt. "I missed you so fucking much, you fucking idiot. Do you have any fucking idea how much I missed you?"

A wide bright smile spread over Sherlock's face as he nodded and held his best friend. "I missed you too."

"Idiot."

"Absolutely."

"... Happy birthday, you idiot."

 


End file.
